To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
e. e. cummings  

yesterday i was walking the dog, and right on the fencepost of what i call “the magic house” (a two-storey with a garden riotous with tulips, tibetan prayer flags and windchimes hanging from the porch, christmas lights twinkling on the stairwell, and cars parked in the driveway plastered with bumper stickers like ‘practice random acts of kindness’) was a red bird who sang so sweetly, i made a mental note of it to google later, because i’d never seen or heard anything like it in my life. i believe i saw a scarlet tanager – which i guess is pretty rare – i could be completely off my rocker, but it looked identical to the bird in the picture.this rare thing – a bright red bird singing me a morning song – was sitting on the fence of a house two blocks from my home.

I thank you God for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes.
e. e. cummings

the world is soaked with rain today. it’s been raining steadily since my wrongly-set alarm went off at quarter after 5.
outside – the sky ripples, and everything is so green. the trees spread their budding leaves together in a canopy that vibrates green. the birds chatter happily to themselves. my dog chews a green ball.
inside – i watch an episode of doctor who with field – then, back in my own space, fall into a book and make chai, wrapping myself in my mother’s blanket and snuggling with a cat on my lap and a dog at my feet.
a day of being suspended on a grey line. wearing sweaters and backless tank-tops to feel the wind in surprise places. my eyes laser-blue under my newly dark hair, making me feel like a new person. when i look in the mirror, i doubletake. 
my hands smell like memories, veiled in a soap i don’t normally use.
time for more reading. 

who knows if the moon’s
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky–filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should
get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people
than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where

            Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves

(guess who wrote that?)

 I would rather learn from one bird how to sing than to teach 10,000 stars how not to dance.
e. e. cummings